Being In Love Gives Me Voice

On September 9, 2007, I wrote,

‘I have a good job, my own apartment, I’m living abroad and I’m miserable. Why can’t I be satisfied with what I have?

Because I’m not doing what I love.

I have silenced my voice far too long for the price of earning a place in society. Where are my saints? Where is my God? What I would give to wake up early in the morning for something that would make me look forward to the day, jump out of bed and pump my fists in the air and scream, “Yes! I’m so glad to be alive!

But that’s not my reality.

These days I roll out of bed and groan, “Not again.” I’d like to treat my work not as merely a job but something you want to do not just for the sake of doing it. Wouldn’t that be the coolest thing in the world?’

That was 15 months, 457 days ago.

A lot of things have happened since I decided I’ve had enough crap of making myself shitty and fucked up. I was tired of writing the same damned thing over and over again. What was I doing sitting on my ass when I could be out there and conquering the world with my words?

And so I did. I had nothing but my pen, a heart that wouldn’t stop beating and a voice that craved to yell out to the world the words pumping inside my veins, words that give me sleepless nights because they keep bouncing inside my head, screaming silently. And I tripped, stumbled, fell, skinned my knees, opened my chest to expose my bleeding insides, shamelessly promoting my writing like a whore to the world and I’m not even asking a cent for it.

At that time, if you had asked me to strip naked in front of you, I will strip naked in front of you, slowly unhooking my bra and exposing my tits if that’s what it takes for you to ask me to write a love poem.

I don’t give a shit because I’m finally doing what I love and fuck you all if you don’t understand what it is I’m going through right now. You’re probably too scared to feel it anyway.

I felt absolu-fuckin’ happy.

For the first time I was in love. I was enjoying life. Screw my day job. This was life and I’m burying my fingers into words, caressing them and sucking them experiencing spasms of orgasms that wouldn’t stop. Hell, it felt better than sex because it would last for hours and I’m present in every moment and there’s no insecurities, no worries of pregnancy –heck, I am giving birth every second, aren’t I?

And like a nymphomaniac, I’m craving for more. That’s why I made this website. I’m not satisfied. I want to know how it feels to do this for the rest of my life. I want to do it more hours, day and night. I want to get my day job out of the way and fuck with words for eternity. Even if I don’t feel like it. I’d eventually get horny anyway because the words would slowly turn me on.

I’d like to fuck them to the point that if you cut my wrists, they won’t bleed crimson blood but splatter blue-black ink on the parchment.

I’d like to go back in time and discover the first time I produce poetry just to feel what it’s like to fall in love again. I’d like to fast forward to the future and see myself finally doing what I love, living with words all the time, spreading the words to the people and making them love them. I’d like to be in this present time, at this very moment forever so I can capture this feeling of intoxication, this joy of love filling my pores to the brim and I’m wrapped around them and never letting go of this happiness, this trance, this nirvana. I’d like to be in this very point of time forever.

I’d like to see myself at the brink of death, holding my pen and whispering the last bit of prose with my last dying breath.

I want to be in love for the rest of my life.

Related posts:

1. Do Not Turn Your Back Away From Your Dreams

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